Stirring In Darkness
by Everything-In-Focus-94
Summary: When John walks in on Sherlock performing magic- it adds a whole new dynamic to their relationship. And opens up a whole new host of dangers for the man who shouldn't know about the magical community. Eventual Sherlock/John. Very AU. Magic!Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1: Stirring In Darkness

Stirring in Darkness

Of all the things that John would have expected his flatmate Sherlock to be doing when he arrived home with their shopping; having a "wizard's duel" was not very high on his list.

But as he and Sherlock ducked under the kitchen table as the latter sent a bolt of charged blue lighting at their assailant, it seemed rather that it was indeed really happening. A wet squelch from came from above their heads and white liquid dripped into Sherlock's black and statically charged curls. John's mouth fell open with frustration and anger.

"BASTARD –spilt my milk!" he growled at the man who was currently summoning what appeared to be a tiny, Baker Street sized lightning storm in response to Sherlock's previous attack. Sherlock chuckled under his breath, swearing in alarm as a huge bolt hit the wooden cupboard above their heads. He retaliated sending a fireball in the man's direction, repeating the previous curse as the man sent it rebounding back in their direction.

"Right- right- so he can summon lightning, control fire and water- which leaves..." Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment as a grin crept over his face. Raising his hands like a barrier, he stepped into open fire.

John was about to scream in alarm, but Sherlock sent a whoosh of controlled air to his foe, sucking the air out of everything in close proximity to him, but thankfully sending the man sprawling on his back. Sherlock ran forward, pinning the man to the floor with his foot, leaving the man squirming under him.

"You shouldn't have come- go back to your master and tell him that next time he wants to try to kill me- send someone with more experience and power to do the job" Sherlock hissed, his face contracting into an evil and heart stopping stare. The man nodded, his breath leaving him as Sherlock sucked the air from his very lungs, sinking into unconsciousness mere minutes later.

Sherlock teleported him with a flick of his hand, a look of genuine disgust and disappointment on his face. It was then he seemed to remember that John was still there. He span on his foot, facing his flatmate who was gently poking the sodden remains of his destroyed carrier bag.

He faced Sherlock, blinking in surprise. Sherlock tensed, preparing for the onslaught, the screaming, the running from the flat, the call to Mycroft, the memory wipe as they held John terrified of the two of them in place, the dazed look as the memories of this day and Sherlock disappeared from his mind and the relocation of John, up to Scotland it would be for him.

John took a step forward, a hand on his lips and his eyes on the floor as he continued in his path towards the detective, until they were directly face to face.

"Did I hit my hea-" " No John, that was very real." Sherlock interjected stony faced. John's mouth fell open in a perfect "o".

"So... you're a wizard?" he said so very slowly. Sherlock nodded, matching John's snail-like pace. Any second, any second now he would begin screaming.

John let out a sigh and Sherlock flinched as his mouth opened once more, preparing himself for the screams that were sure to come.

"Is that why you always know where I am?" John said, causing Sherlock to frown, blinking at him in surprise.

"Among other reasons... I must say, your taking this very well, most people would have run screaming by now" Sherlock said, still not quite sure if he was going to bolt or not. John shrugged, his eyes totally indifferent.

"Well- I've walked in on you doing weirder things with your experiments, to be quite honest- now we need more milk don't we?" John said, matter of fact, grabbing Sherlock's card and his keys to the flat, leaving the man himself confused and perplexed by the whole situation.


	2. Chapter 2: Healing Hands

Healing Hands

For the second time in one day John walked in on his flatmate performing magic. This however was not the violent, fighting magic Sherlock had been performing during his "duel" earlier on this morning.

He was levitating, in the kitchen, waving his hands in intricate loops and swirls over their burnt and broken wooden cabinets. John watched in amazement as the wood, seemingly healed under his touch, the split wood fixing back into place, the burnt wood giving way to clean and new timber.

John frowned, placing his purchase on the table, causing the bottle of milk he'd just purchased to clank noisily against it. Sherlock spun in mid-air, landing lightly on his feet on the kitchen floor.

"John" he said simply, coolly, looking down at the man with inquisitive blue eyes.

"You heal things?" John muttered. Sherlock cast an eye at the cupboard that was near as damn it finished, albeit hanging slightly off its hinges. John coughed, re-drawing his attention.

"Evidently." Sherlock whispered, still expecting the ex-army man to bolt out the front door and never look back. John frowned, his hand absent-mindedly brushing against his leg. Ah- he'd figured out quicker than Sherlock had expected.

"Did- did – you heal my leg?" he stammered, his brain screaming that it was nonsense. Sherlock was silent for a moment, attempting to phrase it in a way that John would understand.

"I suppose _technically _I didn't, as there was never a wound to begin with- although you could say I healed your mind, and therefore your leg. I _was _going to heal your shoulder- but that seemed far too suspicious" he muttered, causing John to quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Could you? - Heal my shoulder I mean?" John continued quickly as Sherlock's face shot up, a look of incredibility on it. He snorted in indignation as John finished this.

"Of course- scar tissue is easy, it's when you have a gaping wound, and your fighting against blood loss that it's difficult. But of course- you would know that..." He finished awkwardly ,pausing for a moment, debating whether to ask this.

"Do- do you want me to?" he said slowly. John was silent for a moment, and tenderly touched his shoulder that they were currently talking about, wincing as the scar tissue immediately rose to the surface under his touch, with painful consequences.

He thought of the scar, what it represented, the memories he'd always have with him, the memories he'd want to forget but never wanted to out of respect, the pain it caused him in the morning as he heaved himself out of bed in Winter. He couldn't speak at the prospect of relieving this pain that would otherwise forever plague him. He merely nodded.

Sherlock repeated the gesture, and motioned to the living room. John walked in silently, sitting down on the couch when Sherlock told him to, lying down as he shrugged his jacket and shirt off.

Sherlock had to hold in an intake of breath as he saw the tangled, mottled mess that was John's shoulder. The white web of scar tissue that was once (judging by the other) a strong, broad shoulder, that would have carried injured soldiers and civilians alike from the war-zone, was shrunken from his limited ability to use, weak and when Sherlock brushed his finger-tips against it, John winced, the pain was absolute and blinding. Sherlock knew immediately that he would have to help John in any-way he could.

His fingers spread across the area, careful not to touch the extremely sensitive area; even still he received a controlled hiss from his flatmate. He looked down at him a look of concern etched on his face.

"Just please do it- quickly" John hissed through his teeth. Sherlock looked down at his pained expression, willing to do everything and anything to relieve the pain he was feeling. There was a few moments of hushed muttering, a slight whisper that this would hurt and then- a flash, a deep shoot of pain as Sherlock's hands just made contact with his shoulder.

John whited out, squirming under his flatmates touch as pain like he had never felt before radiated up his arm and into his chest. His eyes screwed shut as his mind urged him to push his flatmate away, to cease the pain he was feeling. But one soft and uncharacteristically gentle look from his flatmate stopped him in his actions, locking him in place, and even to some extent stopping the pain.

Their eyes remained locked together in this frozen moment in time, Sherlock's mouth muttering illegible words, in other tongues under his breath, John biting his lip and allowing small whimpered gasps to escape his lips, neither taking their eyes off the other for a split second. Finally, and suddenly Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily against John's chest in exhaustion.

It was the most worrying and simultaneously erotic thing that John had ever seen. His normally pale, cool, calm and collected flatmate, cheeks flushed to the point of redness, his head gently nudging against John's chin and his cool minty breath brushing over his arms, making the hairs upon it stand on end.

His arm flexed, to touch Sherlock, to ensure he hadn't collapsed when he realized. He'd flexed his injured arm- or healed arm as the case may now be, and even with the sudden movement that previously would have sent shock waves up and down his arm, he felt- nothing. No pain. No shock.

Just the usual, muscle pulling below the skin, creaking slightly at it sudden unexpected usage but no severe shooting pain that he had come to recognise with moving that arm suddenly. He spread his arm, all the way down to the fingertips and looked at it in awe.

Far from matching his other arm, it was still withered from its lack of use, it was decidedly more solid, every single tendon in it was twitching, the magic still streaming from his shoulder down to his finger-tips.

"I- I couldn't heal you completely- you'll have to build it back up to full strength yourself." Sherlock said, removing his head from his cushion of John's chest and mistaking John's silence of wonderment as one of disappointment. John met his eyes, gulping back tears.

"No, it's perfect Sherlock, you don't know what this means for me, I can- do so much more now" he whispered. With that, and without a single rational thought in his head, John enveloped his flatmate in his arms, in relief and thanks, burying his head in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John's back, enveloping himself in the man's musky scent and inhaling it deep into his lungs. They remained for a few moments, before John took the initiative and moved slowly backwards.

Their eyes met once more, Sherlock's breath growing haggard as he saw something he'd never seen in John's eyes before, his own eyes reflecting this dangerous and life-changing look. John's tongue moved out to wet his lip, hesitantly shifting in his seat, moving his face perilously close to Sherlock's.

Sherlock, face tilted and was about to move in when a shrill ring cracked the growing tension in the room. The men both jumped on the spot, John immediately searching for the detective's phone, but Sherlock face turned upwards, a sour look crossing his face as he looked at the light fitting. John's face joined his.

The fitting was glowing a brilliant golden, shaking and rattling in the ceiling, emitting that piercing noise. Sherlock, sighed, groaning and heaving himself to his feet.

"Mycroft want's me- no, us.." he sighed once more, heavier, allowing John to get to his feet in that slow, typically blundering way of his.

"Is he- umm, sending a car?" John said, a single look from his flatmate providing him with the answer. Sherlock laid a gentle hand on his arm and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Hold on tight..." he muttered, as 221b dissolved around them. John clung to Sherlock like a limpet as the world began to spin.


	3. Chapter 3: Tranquillity PART 1

Tranquillity and Rememberance (PART ONE)

Tranquillity

Mycroft was far from happy when they appeared with a slight pop in his bedroom, dressed in his typical black suit and the umbrella that always stayed near his person, being thread through his long fingers. He had a face like thunder... literally, a small cloud was appearing above his head, spitting dry rain into the air and the occasional lightning bolt.

"Careful Mycroft-...remember the last time" Sherlock said pointedly with a raise of his eyebrow. Mycroft continued to glower but the cloud seemed to break apart and clear.

He swivelled those darker grey eyes onto John, glinting with maddening anger. Sherlock stiffened beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady the shaking, the shaking that John hadn't even realized he was doing.

"Don't you dare... Back off Mycroft." he hissed, causing his black curls to crackle with his forming electrical magic that both brothers were now displaying freely. Mycroft pursed his lips, his eyes fixed on John.

"He shouldn't know about us at all Sherlock, let alone performing magic on him... what on earth were you thinking? We should... cut him off now, save damage in the long run" he said, darkly, his eyes seemingly glowing from within, fixed on John with clear intent.

Sherlock moved in front of the now pale doctor, placing his thin but hardened body as a magical shield between his flat-mate and his brother.

"_Back_- off" he repeated, his hands beginning to glow red in the blue lit room. Fire sprung from his palms and Mycroft gave a hiss of indignation.

"Don't forget _Mykra, _who the highest in our order is. I may allow you to summon me but you do not order me around. And if, I place him under_ my_ protection, he shall be protected as by all." Sherlock growled, Mycroft flinching as the lights in the room flickered and the glow in Sherlock's hands intensified as if the light from the room was absorbing into him.

"It should have been me! I was the eldest son, our father was the- " "MYKRA!" Sherlock shouted, his face contorting into horrific and deadly features, his voice echoing throughout the house with a resounding boom. Mycroft sunk to his knees, dipping his head in a bow and looking up at Sherlock with cold but accepting eyes.

"As you wish... sir" he all but snarled, keeping those ferocious eyes on his brother who was now towering above him. Sherlock nodded, taking John by the shoulder. The ex.-soldier only had time to tear his eyes away from the knelt Holmes brother, and tighten his grip somewhat before the world dissolved and spun once more.

* * *

><p>Sherlock eyes seemed to bore into him as he partially sat, partially collapsed onto the sofa, his own eyes set on the steaming cup of tea in his hands.<p>

"So, your brothers a wizard like you?" he muttered finally. Sherlock sighed, sitting straight up in his seat. Here it was, the questions, unbelievable that Mycroft had been the one to finally scare John off.

"Well technically he's merely a warlock and I'm a sorce- but yes." he said as John's eyes turned onto him, freezing him in place with that uncanny, hypnotic effect that he'd always had on him.

"Is... is there a difference? I mean, between a wizard and a warlock and a sorcerer and... such?" John asked, pitifully wracking his brains for any other type of magic practitioner he knew off. Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile, his eyes liquid silver.

"Yes John, a big difference in fact. Put into... terms you'd understand, a wizard is a bit like a private, no more than your typical practitioner, can do some basic magic a bit of summoning here and there, nothing to big. A warlock would be the general, extremely powerful, and when you become one- you would be in charge of a small area of land in the country you preside in. Your also put forward into becoming Chief Warlock or as you would put it a sorcerer." Sherlock paused for a moment, allowing the continually paling John to take it all in. He nodded, signalling Sherlock to go on, but not before he noticed the tightness with which he gripped his cup.

"A sorcerer... how do I even begin to explain a sorcerer? A- being with possibly limitless possibilities, anything that comes to mind, within reason they can do. My father was one, his powers- you can't even imagine. He could control all of the elements and some that didn't even really exist. Mycroft should have inherited his powers but for some reason..." he trailed off staring at his palms that seemed to have taken on a silvery sheen, reflecting the colour of Sherlock's beautiful eyes.

John took one of them in his grasp, turning the palms over to face him, trailing his fingers over the glowing power within. Those eyes remained locked on him, the glowing intensifying as his fingers continued to almost tickle Sherlock's sensitive palms.

"Show me..." John whispered, his eyes flickering to meet Sherlock's, the chocolate brown impossibly warm and inquisitive. Sherlock's teeth came out to meet his bottom lip, and he gave a slow nod. It seemed an acceptable request for someone to ask him after discovering his secret.

"Alright" he said oh so slowly, raising his hands. A whispered mutter and suddenly Sherlock's eyes were brighter than ever and the fire dancing in his hands were reflected in them, the brilliant orange and red of the flame highlighted with that same silver.

John timidly reached out, placing his finger-tips in the flickering light, wincing slightly at the touch before moving further into the merely warm flame. A soft smile appeared on his lips as Sherlock tipped half the flame into John's palms, it freezing for a second before a quiet mutter from Sherlock's lips made it continue it's flickering.

"How..." John whispered in wonderment, allowing the flame to wander over his hands, a mild tickling sensation following in its path. Sherlock smiled gently, and touched the flame. It erupted into soft green flames at his touch and the smell of freshly mown grass and rain filled the air around them.

Sherlock's eyes flickered that brilliant silver colour again and a soft white cloud appeared in the roof above their heads causing dry rain to fill the air, the occasional droplet falling onto Sherlock or John's skin but caressing their cheeks like soft silk as it fell down the faces, evaporating and disappearing into the air as it left their skin.

"John... take my arm" Sherlock said gently. John's palm touched his wrist, the familiar calloused digits of his fingers tightening around his slender limb, and the world disappeared in a silvery pop.

John gasped staggering backwards, and falling into the long grass that surrounded them. It took less than a second for Sherlock flop beside him, watching his whole face light up in wonderment as he sat up taking in the magically controlled wind that circled them; blowing water into their faces in a gentle mist, the smell of cherry blossoms filled the air.

The sun shone brightly in the sky above them, flickering off the lake, casting Sherlock's face in glistening lines and shadows. John faced him for a single moment, his eyes wanting to continue roaming, taking in the heavenly place that Sherlock had taken him to.

"Where are we?" he whispered in wonderment, watching a brilliantly blue bird chase a yellow one in the blossomed trees, looking at the mountains with their snowy peaks rising up from the ground, majestically, tall, imposing and beautiful all in one go.

His flatmate which also fitted that description came to stand beside him, brushing the grass from him hair.

"Amuanaia , John... _This_, is Amuanaia- my world, my escape. A world of magic, peace, tranquillity and everything you could imagine. This is my life's work, the world I inherited from my father, the source of my powers and my life-line. And, you're the first person who's ever been in here except me" he said gently, touching a hand against one of the silk like trees. John watched the biggest smile on his face as the tree slowly bucked under his touch, and the leaves dropped down to caress both of their faces.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHORS NOTE: Yeah, this chapter was getting a little too long for my liking so I've split it into two. 2nd part should be up today or tomorrow depending on exams and such... Coming soon: more about Amuanaia, Sherlock and John's forgotten past and more magic! Hope you enjoyed :)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4: Of War and Remembrance PART 2

Of Remembrance and War

This... John, is the real difference between warlocks, wizards, mages and so on and so for and sorcerers. For, every other race, man included, there is evil in _most_ of their hearts, nurtured since the beginning of time there to hinder, to harm, even to go as far as to destroy in some peoples warped minds. Sorcerers'... we, we are here to help, to heal the blackness in the other races hearts, and to create, something in our image that we can tether to ourselves and leave to the next generation when we- pass" he said gently, the tree still touching his face with a light touch.

"Did..._ Do_ I have evil in my heart?" John whispered, tears threatening to roll down his face at the sight of his emotionally challenged flatmate suddenly pouring his heart out. Sherlock's body stiffened, swivelling round in one fluid motion to meet John's eyes.

A warm and totally un-Sherlock smile lit up his face.

"No... No John. You are one of the reasons why I say only_ most_ have evil." Sherlock said gently, closing the gap between them. John's eyes gazed up at his suddenly even more towering form, wetting his lips nervously with his tongue as the detective moved even closer.

"This, my world was my final test. Only one with pure of heart can enter this realm without my real permission. And I gave none." Sherlock said, waving his hand, gesturing to the heaven on Earth that they were in. John breath came out in small huffs as their bodies pressed closer and close together, until they could not further.

Sherlock's hand moved up to touch his arm, the healed arm, glinting magically in the silvery light of Sherlock's sun.

"I wish I could have stopped this, it caused you so much- pain, so much suffering, and it could have tipped you over the edge." He murmured almost regretfully, his fingertips tracing the pattern of where the scar had once been, his thumb brushing oh-so close to John's cheek.

"You couldn't have done any-"John cut himself off, squinting into the sun, illuminating Sherlock's features and cutting an angelic silhouette against the sky. He'd seen it before, something he'd accounted to adrenaline, pain and hallucinations.

_He'd been shot. Fucking hell he'd actually been fucking shot. The pain! The pain, it cut's like nothing he'd ever felt before, like a thousand knifes in the arm, like someone punching him over and over, knocking the wind from his lungs in thunderous blows. The bullets continue to ping over his head, one more, one more, straight through his helmet and then it would be over- the bullets have stopped. Why? Is it over? Is he dead? No... No, the pain is still there, still excruciatingly there. But there are someone's footsteps, two sets, running in his direction. He tries to heave himself up but the pain rockets through him, bringing tears to his sandy face. A figure, illuminated by the sun, his un-helmeted head hovering over his, comes into his eye-line. This is it- the figure raises a hand. The enemy, he'll be shot, dead. He'll never see Harry again, never apologize. The man bends down, his face still blurred from the sand, sun and sweat in John's eyes, the sharp edges of his features coming into slight focus and he touches a hand to John's arm. John's eyes flickered shut as the pain began to overwhelm him._

_"That will hold it off for a moment Mykra. Go... see to the man he was trying to save. Make it look like he got shot bringing him back to base. GO!" a deep voice echoed from above and a slight grumble reaches his ears. The other pair of footsteps disappears into the distance and there's a hand smoothing back the hair from his forehead, the touch soothing and gentle. John's eyes flickered open for a moment, a pained groan escaping his lips and focused on the figure. The man, he was surely a man with that deep, booming voice, was gazing down at him, his figure completely angelic in the Afghani sun. Silvery blue eyes gazed at him, crinkling at the sides where the smile was reaching his eyes._

_"It's ok John...I'll look after you" his angel whispered, pressing his lips to John's head. John surrendered to the pain and had awoken in hospital. He was lucky to be alive, the bullet only just missing the artery in his arm by mere millimetres, they told of how he had saved a man's life carrying him back into safety even though they'd both been shot, him collapsing as he'd reached the base. A man on patrol had found him about 10 minutes later. John had spoke of the angel who'd saved him, an angel with blue eyes and a rich chocolaty voice. The doctors had simply checked for brain damage and within 4 day's he'd been shipped back home._

"Holy Shhhh-" he trailed off, recalling where he was and who he was with. His eyes widened to an eye-popping level and his knees collapsed beneath him, all the air whooshing out of his lungs in a single motion.

Sherlock grasped him round the waist and held him to his chest in order to steady him. His eye's glinted and the grass beneath the two of them thickened, and together he sat them down, John still grasping to Sherlock's coat for comfort and support.

"John... come on John, please don't freak out now" he whispered in the doctor's ear, gently pushing his now longer hair from his eyes. He was leaning down to kiss his forehead when John's doe-like eyes flew upwards to meet his gaze.

"That's... that's what you did in Afghanistan. You smoothed back my hair, you spoke to me, you carried me, you... you, saved my life. You? Sherlock? You saved my life? You're the angel?" he stammered, his chest heaving, looking at Sherlock for confirmation. Sherlock's expression dropped and he suddenly looked very embarrassed and flustered.

"_Oh_... you remember then. Mycroft was never very good at memory charms" he muttered under his breath. John's breath caught in his throat again.

"Oh my... I didn't imagine it. Oh, god." He whimpered, clutching to the man for support. Sherlock's lips gaped and he took a few deep breaths in through his nose.

"John... I hope you understand. I didn't think our paths would cross again and- urgh" his speech was knocked out of him by John's arms squeezing him tightly, his arms wrapped in a vice grip around Sherlock's waist, his wet eyes snuffling into Sherlock's collar, the warm tears dripping onto Sherlock's skin.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he murmured into Sherlock's throat, the breath from his lips meeting Sherlock's neck in tickling bursts. Sherlock flushed, before snorting in indignation.

"And tell you what? That I was the "angel" that saved your life in Afghanistan, who healed the most of the bullet wound that nearly died saving you? Did you really want to know that John!" he snapped, pushing John away, causing him to fall backwards into the soft grass. John ground his teeth, pushing himself up on his arms.

"Well? Wouldn't it have been preferable than me finding out like this, that I hadn't been dreaming of some angelic figure for months but my scruffy, untidy flatmate who was sprawling on the sofa of my lounge? I thought I'd gone mad for falling- for dreaming about _you _every night, but it was because I'd seen you before in the most memorable moment of my life... And no fucking memory charm can erase that" he said, facing up to his taller flatmate who had also shot to his feet, his eyes a dark-stormy grey. The world turned dark, huge thunder clouds erupting in the sky behind him; thunder beginning to rumble in time with Sherlock's heaving breath.

"Is it possible John that I had secrets? I couldn't reveal this side of myself to you but I couldn't tell you the truth without telling you this first. Do you know how many times I nearly "accidently" performed magic in front of you so I could get this fucking secret off my chest! But I didn't want to let you into this world... its dangerous John. There are people in this world that would harm you for knowing about this. There, I was bloody protecting you again... And again, and again." He said, a hint of sarcasm in his deep rich voice.

John glowered up at him.

"Send me home." He growled, his eyes glinting madly. Sherlock huffed through his nose.

"To_ your_ home or _our_ home?" He said hissily. John's face contorted for a moment before he stiffened his face turning into an expressionless mask.

"To 221b... it's still our home. Even though I can't bear to look at you at the moment" he said, his voice fading as Sherlock placed a finger-tip to his head and he disappeared from view. Only then did Sherlock allow the tears to come and he crumpled to his knees as the rain splattered around him.

* * *

><p><em>Authors note: why the sudden change in John? Is he merely annoyed or is there another emotion at play here? Coming soon: magic (duh), the truth about some of Sherlock and John's cases and a few more emotions coming to the surface.<em>


	5. Chapter 5: Welcome Home

_Welcome_ Home

Sherlock didn't arrive home for 2 days after their argument, the smell of grass and flowers filled the room with a fragrant pop as he arrived. John peered over the top of his medical journal he was reading, lip white from the tight bite he was pressing to it.

Sherlock gave him a curt nod, spinning on his foot to walk slowly to his bedroom.

"Sherlock... I'm- sorry." John said gently, getting to his feet and walking towards his stiff and frozen flat-mate, his suited back rigid and unwelcoming. Sherlock raised his nose to the air, inhaling as John took another tentative step, whispering his flatmates name.

A rustle from the kitchen alerted Sherlock to a presence and he yelled out, running backwards, grabbing John on the way to drag them behind the safety of the sofa. A flick of his hand moved their armchair to protect their two bodies.

"HEAD DOWN!" Sherlock yelled, as a bright purple flame burst over the top, touching John with its violent, ferociously warm flame, licking down his face with terrifically painful conquests.

John screamed in pain, subsiding as Sherlock waved a hand and the flames extinguished the skin beneath it pink, new but unharmed. Sherlock's hand buried in his hair, pushing his head down into the carpet beneath.

Tears welled in John's eyes as he crumpled to the floor, the shock and lack of pain confusing and overwhelming. He let a small wail escape his lips as he curled himself up into a ball_. _

_Contained explosions, fire, the smell of blood, pain, screaming filled his ears._ He was suddenly back in one of his nightmares. Blood, his blood, pain, PAIN. He screamed out as the psychosomatic pain in his leg flared, as he felt the bullet enter his arm, he could smell, feel his blood leaving his body. He screamed for Sherlock, waiting hoping for his flatmates warm embrace.

"John... please. Breathe- it isn't real." Sherlock's voice came from the blur of emotions he was feeling. He grasped for him, his hand colliding with the soft carpet he had collapsed onto.

John's eyes flew to his, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes wide and desperate, meeting the worried expression in his flatmates iced cold blue eyes.

"Help... please Sherlock. Help me." He whispered in tiny gasps before collapsing hand over head to the floor.

"Right..." Sherlock growled watching his flatmate shake on the floor. Standing up and facing the assailant, Sherlock seemed to give off an unearthly glow, a pure white, blinding light appearing in all his hands. He walked towards the man shooting bolts at them, who cowered as Sherlock batted as one would bat away a petulant wasp.

"Please... I didn't mean to. He didn't tell me who- he was... I was only following orders- I didn't mean to..." he whimpered, desperately trying to teleport, the seething red in Sherlock's eyes stopped him in his tracks, locking him into place.

"There are no excuses. You should not have hurt John." he said darkly, the silvery light in his eyes staining itself a blood red. The man wept, clutching at Sherlock's suit trousers with tear-stained eyes.

"Please... I needed the money. I have a family to look after, I needed- ARGH!" he screamed as Sherlock's eyes flashed darker still, almost completely black and pain tore through him. His screams filled the living room, reaching the ears of John. His eyes flew open.

"He didn't... He didn't tell me. Please- my wife, my children" he wept, as Sherlock raised the black bolt of lightning in his hand over his head, his other hand forcing the man upwards, forcing him to brandish his sensitive neck to the dark detective. He continued to mewl, his hands grasping at his throat, attempting to free the air that was slowly being sucked from his lungs.

The whole world seemed to turn dark, the lights flickered, Sherlock's mouth contorted into an evil smile.

"You _beg _too much." he hissed, a forked tongue forming beneath his teeth. With that he started to bring the spitting lightning down on the man's neck. It barely touched the sensitive skin on his throat, forcing an agonized yell to be pulled from his throat when a hand on his arm stopped him.

Sherlock spun, letting go of his grip on the man and slamming John into the sideboard with such gusto that the marble splinted. John winced, feeling his ribs crack, and chocked as a hand enclosed over his throat.

"Sher-lock. It's me... It's me Sherlock. It's John" he chocked, forcing him to stare into the blood-red eyes with the fire burning within.

"_Jooohn?"_ Sherlock whispered, his eyes widening and reverting to their normal colour in a split second. He dropped John, who fell from his raised position above the side, with a sickening crack reverberating from his ankle. John yowled, swivelling his eyes to the man who was still chocking on the floor.

"Go." He rasped. The man didn't need telling twice, disappearing from their world with a pop. Sherlock sunk to his knees, grasping at John's hands.

"It wasn't me John... It wasn't me. I would never, never hurt you on purpose. It was..." he groaned, placing his hands on a oozy black substance that was coming from his heart. John placed his hands on the closed but gaping wound and entwined his fingers with Sherlock's.

"Please... tell me what's going on." He whispered, placing his left hand on Sherlock's face and forcing him to look at him. Sherlock's eye's met his and he whined as the substance spurted out a little more.

"I haven't been totally honest with you John" he whispered.

* * *

><p><em>Authors Note: Gah! What was that about? xD You'll find out soon enough, I promise. And also it will stop being so bloody angst-y *crosses heart*. Promise. Yeah, another split in half because I wanted to be evil and do a cliffhanger (although the second part will probably be up tomorrow or even later tonight so there won't be too much of a wait...). So, what's going on? What <strong>else <strong>has Sherlock been keeping from John? Can their friendship survive and develop? What the hell was that black ooze about and why the sudden evil!Magic Sherlock?... spoilers :P_


	6. Chapter 6: The Unwelcome Truth

The Unwelcome Truth

"Now Sherlock... You, are going to tell me the truth and I don't care how disastrous it could be, or that my life would be in danger, we're in this together" John whispered as Sherlock eye's fluttered open, capturing the recently unconscious detective in a moment of what he thought would be a moment of weakness.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, a hardened look entering his steely eyes. They softened however when John tenderly brushed the back of his hand with his fingers, in an intimate but gentle gesture that sent non-magical tingles racing up his spine and through the hairs of his neck.

A soft sigh escaped his lips and he scooted, gesturing for John to perch opposite him, their hands touching and linked all the way through their movements.

"I don't even know how to begin explaining this John" he whispered, his eyes folding shut, allowing the translucent skin of his eyelids to meet John's harrowed and concerned expression. His hands gripped tighter in encouragement.

"Sherlock... try me. All the stuff that I've discovered the last few days, I'm sure I can handle another shock or two." He said, trying desperately to keep the scared shake from his voice.

"The cabbie. From our first case." Sherlock muttered, keeping his eyes shut, away from John's tender and now confused look. A tightening of the grip forced another small sigh from the detective as he wound his fingers through John's calloused digits.

"Go on." John whispered in encouragement.

"It wasn't Moriarty" the name elicited a shudder through the two men. "Or money or love that drove him to kill. He- he was possessed, there was a demon inside him, it got into his mind, in his brain. I would have shown up on the brain scan as a shadow."

"The... aneurysm" John supplied, his face dropping about ten inches in shock and surprise. Sherlock nodded, looking at the veins raising themselves to the surface of his skin, bright blue in the mild light of the room, darkening where the shadows produced by the curtains crossed across them.

"It- it left him when you killed him. I only realized when I saw his face after the kill shot; he was confused, in pain, dying. He had no clue what he'd been doing for the last few months- murdering all those people. He was a victim as well as they were John" he said quietly, hoping, praying that the penny would drop.

It didn't.

"So that's why it didn't show up in the autopsy? We assumed it had ruptured from the violence of the shot or something... not that it had dissa- "a wide eyed expression crossed over his face. "Where did the demon go?"

Bingo.

Sherlock's mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, before he pursed his lips, looking up at John through his eyelashes. John looked down at him in horror.

"In... in you? It went into you?" he whispered, dropping his hold on Sherlock's hand.

As if on cue and to announce its placement, a shot of pain like lightning flashed through his skull, causing the detective to wince, screwing his eyes shut and placing a palm on his throbbing head.

John leapt backwards, allowing the detective to move, a scream of pain escaping his lips as his hand grew white hot and forced the being back into the recesses of his mind. Sherlock whited out, gritting his teeth to ensure that he didn't scream any louder, only vaguely aware of John's hands pressed over his own.

"Move." He hissed, forcing his eyes open through the pain. John did as he was told, moving away from his flatmate and watching as the glow faded with the pain and the hissing escaping his teeth subsided.

"Don't... do... that. I can subdue it, force it backwards... if this gets into you it _will _kill you." He growled, trying desperately to control the heaving breaths that his lungs were involuntarily taking.

"But... won't it kill you?" John whispered. Sherlock locked eyes with him, his pupils huge in shock and fear.

"It can't kill me. I'm too powerful, too useful for it to simply dispose of me like a broken toy. No, it will consume me- take me over to the dark side, and destroy me that way. I won't be myself anymore." Sherlock murmured.

"But, can't you exorcise it or... kill it yourself." John continued in that breathy whisper, the fear apparent in the tremor in his voice.

"I can hold it back- I have been holding it back. But, my defences are weakening. Soon it will break through, and John, when that happens you have to promise me something..." Sherlock took his hand and blinked John's gun into existence, pressing the handle into the doctor's hand.

"You need to kill me before I... before I hurt you. I couldn't bear to hurt you. What you saw tonight is only a tiny percentage of the power this _thing _has, and left untapped into my powers... You can't let me live." He said, enclosing John's hand over the object.

John dropped it onto the floor with a clatter, Sherlock's quick muttering to empty the bullets from it the only thing stopping it exploding on the spot. John leapt to his feet backing away from his flatmate and his promises, hands raised in alarm.

"I- no... Sherlock I can't do that. I can't kill you- not you. Never you. You can- fight it. Kill it. We'll find a way." He whispered, taking short sharp breaths between his words. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, just as John did what Sherlock had been expecting him to do ever since he'd found out the truth about Sherlock's powers.

John ran.

* * *

><p><strong> NEXT TIME: John gets himself into a spot of trouble with the supernatural underworld after running away from Sherlock. Can Sherlock find him and save him, without bringing the demon to the surface? And can he convince John to give him his word to uphold his promise?<strong>


	7. Chapter 7:The Science of Osculation

The Science of Osculation

As a young man John hadn't been big on running, never wanted to spread his arms through the air raising his coat into the wind and pretend he was flying. He was contented to walk through life, continuing in his own leisurely pace as the world rushed around him.

He'd learnt to run pretty damn fast in the years since then, be it from a bullet in Afghanistan or pelting after Sherlock when he chases a criminal down the backstreets of London in complete blackness.

It appeared that the _practice _had paid off and he soon put a good mile of winding backstreets and darkened alleyways between him and Baker Street and the promise he would do anything to avoid keeping.

Midway between the 2nd mile, his limbs began to burn, salty sweat poured down his face threatening to mix with the pure tears streaming from his eyes and the rain water from the sky, his mouth was dry and his head pounded.

Somewhere in the darkness, a whiplash like feeling seemed to slap across his legs, leaving him sprawling to the floor, his head colliding with the floor with a sickening crack.

He heaved himself to a sitting position, blinking rapidly as white spot appeared in front of his eyes.

"Sooooo... Here is the John Watson. You're so, so... ordinary." a snake-like voice hissed in the darkness. John, immediately went to raise his fists but found them pinned to his side in a harsh clawed grip.

A horned being came into view, his lips stained red with the blood of what John assumed to be his last kill. He tried to struggle but found himself frozen in the man's gaze.

"Yet killing you be the final step to pushing Sherlock over the edge, and onto our side. He'd come –willingly, to us. You'd be the martyr to our cause and the catalyst in the end of the world." He took a step forward, pressing a cold, forked tongue to John's neck, revelling in the man's scent and the pin-pricks of blood which flooded to the surface.

_John... where are you? _

Sherlock's voice seemed to flood his mind, filling it with bright light and strength. John struggled once more, freeing a hand to bat away the creature that was focused on his neck, his fist colliding with a noisy crunch on where its nose would be.

The two- things, shrieked, the one behind him forcing his head back so that it clicked noisily, the position now more unnatural than uncomfortable.

_OPEN YOUR MIND JOHN... Your there but... I can't quite get to- oh._

The creature raised a fist, bringing it down to John's face. His eyes slammed shut, tensing for the strike that never came. After a moment, his eyes flickered open, widening in wonderment as he took in the scene before him.

Another thing that John never considered himself as a boy was religious. He went to church on Sunday with his parents, like every good little boy did. But never _really_ believed in it.

But now. Looking at Sherlock in all his glory, he could believe in one of the parts he'd learnt about in church.

Hand's held aloft, his whole body emitting a golden white light, illuminating the rain particles that were flying around them and his eyes the most brilliant blue he'd ever seen, Sherlock was an angel.

His guardian angel, pinning both creatures against the wall with a swipe of his muscled arm, the fire that John often saw in his eyes ignited as he squeezed the life out of them. Saving him from their grasp.

Avenging. He was an avenging angel. In his right hand, he held a golden stream of light aloft like a sword, bringing it down on the head of the leader, watching as it screamed in pain, causing John and the other creature to shield their eyes from the light as he exploded in the darkness, jets of pure light flying in every direction.

Mercy. He was an angel of mercy. When he turned to the other creature, the younger as he could now see in the semi light of the alley, his expression softened and he gently touched it on the shoulder.

"I know you were forced into doing this by Meshawn, and I know he has your little sister held ransom if you didn't comply. I know you didn't want to hurt me or John so, _this _once I will let you go." He paused for a moment, allowing the deep echo of his voice to bounce around the other than them deserted place.

"She's underneath the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco- go find her. And never return to London." He said, his voice perfectly comforting and unsettling at the same time. The thing melted into the shadows, a look of pure relief and wonderment on its horrifically unsettling face.

Sherlock span, his chest heaving, the buttons on his shirt straining as the tremors of forced breath racked through him. He locked eyes with John, his mouth pursed but pouted as if words were threatening to form on his lips.

"John... I'm-" his word's were cut off by Johns hand tracing the soft skin of his forearm, bare from sudden rescue plan he'd been forced to undertake.

His gaze followed a rain droplet as it dripped down one of the hairs on Sherlock's arm, and slowly but surely moved his hands up the man's muscled arm, surgeons hands feeling every crevice and twitch beneath them.

His hands met silky cotton, brilliant white in the moonlight. His eyes flashed upwards back into the molten silver pools that seemed to always probe into his soul.

The detective's unruly curls where hap dashed from the short but powered run and fight he'd just finished, the rain forming smoothed curls to form at the front of his fringe, water dripping from them and down the man's nose and sharp cheekbones, leaving tiny trails of water on the otherwise unblemished skin.

He heaved a sigh of relief, he motion shaking the raven like curls, making water fly from his hair to John's face, spattering the doctor's face with the tiny droplets as their lips met.

Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, allowing a small puff of breath to escape from his opened lips, capturing the ex-army man's gaze in his once more before surging back down into a heart-stopping kiss.

John's hands reached upwards, entwining his fingers in Sherlock's hair with one hand, the other fisted in the man's silken shirt, his fingers brushing the cool, wet skin that lay beneath the now soaked shirt.

In a quick movement, faster than the eye could see and the brain could react Sherlock span the man round, pushing him lightly against what should have been a cold, wet brick wall.

Instead John toppled backwards into a soft feathery quilt, Sherlock's body long and lanky over his, his hardened member pressing against the wet material of John's jeans.

A quick look around revealed that Sherlock had teleported them back to Baker Street, to Sherlock's room to be exact. John raised himself to his elbows, looking round the room in his flat he'd never been in for fear of disrupting one of Sherlock's experiments or more rarely the man himself when he allowed himself an hour's sleep or so.

The man in question was slowly unbuttoning John's shirt, peppering hot wet kisses along the skin that he revealed, causing the doctor's teeth to bite his lip in order to stop him crying out prematurely. Blood oozed at the point of his teeth, and his eyes rolled back into his head as Sherlock's talented fingers brushed against his chest and neck.

His hand's seemed to be everywhere, in John's hair, scooped around his back, threaded with John's hands, roaming over his stomach and further downwards, the fingers long and cold.

A strangled groan escaped John's mouth causing Sherlock's silvery eyes to flash up to meet his. A soft smile lit up the detective's face as he claimed John's lips with his own.

* * *

><p><em>Authors Note: to be continued with el smutio in the next chapter. John begins to wonder about his sudden change in feelings? Has Sherlock done something to him?<em>


End file.
